Just when I thought I’d be writing about how positive things have been… or how I think I’m finally feeling at peace with the fate life has dealt me… the universe decides to sucker punch me and bring me down a notch.
If you’ve been following my blog, you know that my workplace is horrifyingly fertile. Today, my manager mentioned that the new baby might have to come in to work once a week as there isn’t enough daycare. At this point in the conversation, my pregnant co-worker suggests that my workspace is large enough to service as a daycare. She’s joking of course, but I’m feeling bitter and humorless, and I force that smile that I’m oh-so very well practiced at, and suggest that I work at home should all this transpire.
Seriously, what should I do? Should I tell my manager that it’s hard enough to have Earth Mother around, much less two newborns? Why do I have to be the one to give up my heartbreak to get them to understand? Perhaps I’m being difficult, but surely the workplace can be my one sanctuary, where I can forget about babies and infertility? If I have to face a weekly heartache, a reminder of the longing and pain, I will resign. I’ll have to, or lose my mind; I’m just not sure how else to cope.